


Like the hand of a thief

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: DCU Animated, Under the Red Hood
Genre: Angst, M/M, POV Second Person, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-25
Updated: 2010-10-25
Packaged: 2017-10-12 21:31:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/129288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing about Dick is that you can't hold onto him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like the hand of a thief

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to mousapelli for hand-holding. Title from Richard Siken.

The thing about Dick is that you can't hold onto him. No one can, except maybe Bruce, and Bruce has let him go more than once, then realized his mistake and scrambled to get him back. No one knows that better than you--you were the first replacement, the one who could never live up to him. You spent a lot of time studying him, learning him. He flew and made it look easy in a way it never was for you--like gravity didn't affect him somehow, while you could never escape it, tumbling back to earth again and again.

At some point, wanting to be him turned into wanting him. As long as you've wanted anyone, as long as you've known what it means to want someone, he's the one you wanted first.

You never did get that out of your system. Even after everything, watching him still makes your breath catch and your cock hard.

Which is why you still can't quite believe that you're here now, together on a bed that you've told him is yours but that really belongs to some dead drug dealer, that he's moving between your spread thighs and fucking into you with his eyes closed in concentration and his breath hot against your skin. Sweat makes his hair cling to his forehead and you force your eyes to stay open despite the sparks lighting in your veins so you can watch the slow track of a bead of it down the long line of his neck, captivated by the shift of muscle underneath his skin as he moves. You want to remember everything, like details at a crime scene you can play back in your head later to try and solve the mystery of what he's even doing here with you, if it's some kind of weird, private fuck you to Bruce, or a pity fuck, or if he's got the same itch under his skin that you do. If you're more alike than either of you ever believed.

As much as you'd hate to admit it, it's probably the only time you've ever really surprised him, slipping past his defenses with your tongue the way you never quite manage with your fists. It's one of the few times he's surprised you, too; you didn't expect the strangled animal sound he made when you kissed him, the slick rough heat of his tongue in your mouth and the curl of his hands in your jacket when he shoved you against the wall, never breaking the kiss.

"I've got a place," you said, your voice like the slow rasp of a rusty hinge, and he laughed when you whispered the address, a penthouse uptown, before you shoved out of his arms and took off. You'd finally hooked him, you thought, and you paced the carpeted floor of the bedroom, waiting to reel him in, telling yourself you wouldn't be disappointed if he didn't show.

He climbed through the window you'd opened, half-smile on his face. For once, you didn't waste any time with conversation; even in the half-dressed, horny stumble to the bedroom, he was graceful in a way that never came naturally to you.

But even now, when he's balls-deep inside of you, it's like there's still some part of him you can't touch. It makes you want to break him wide open and climb inside.

"Hey," he says, "hey," and kisses you, like he doesn't know he's got your full attention, that right now, he's all you can breathe or think or want to be.

He pushes your legs wider and you shift up and against him, the tension coiled high and tight inside you threatening to break any second.

"Please," you say, and you can't even be embarrassed about how needy you sound, the fingers of one hand digging viciously into his biceps, leaving marks you hope will linger. You wrap your other hand around your cock and he twines his fingers with yours as you stroke.

"Yeah," he says, hips and hands working in rhythm, "come on."

It's been a long time since you were good at taking orders, if you ever really were, but this is one you can't refuse. Bright sparks paint the insides of your eyelids white and you moan loudly as you come, thick strands of jizz warm against your skin.

He keeps thrusting for a few seconds, and then he stiffens and makes another of those choked off sounds as he comes.

You're vaguely surprised that he's not more of a talker, before you think that maybe he's just not a talker with _you_. He collapses on top of you, smelling of sweat and spunk, and you breathe him in, mouthing at his jaw before biting down hard enough to sting. He grunts and jerks away, but he's laughing when he rolls over onto his back. You already miss the warmth of his body pressing you into the mattress.

You'd be disgusted with yourself if he hadn't just fucked you mellow.

You can't think of anything you could actually say out loud without embarrassing yourself while you clean up (using ridiculously high thread-count sheets you might take with you when you go), still in that slow, hazy, post-orgasm place, but he still seems a little dazed, too, so you refuse to beat yourself up over it. You're pretty sure there'll be a line of people out the door to do it for you if anyone finds out about this. You want to keep it like a stolen secret even as you're already wondering how to use it against him.

You prop yourself up on your elbows and watch while he gets dressed, warm, pleased feeling smoldering in your belly as you inventory the marks you left on his body. Once he's dressed, he hesitates for a second, and you're glad to see that even Dick is awkward in this situation. It makes two of you.

He leans in and gives you a quick, hard kiss before he goes to the window. "See you," he says.

"Count on it," you answer, but he's already gone.

You know there's no way you could've kept him here--you don't even want to be here now that you're done--but you still have to ruthlessly squash down the small, hopeful (stupid) part of yourself that wishes you could.

end

~*~


End file.
